Page 87 of Brushed and Buried
Night has fallen by the time we reach the city. Pacific Heights appears gradually, house by house, each more impressive than the last. Vince pulls into the driveway of a restored Victorian with bay windows and intricate trim, an understated elegance, a quiet luxury that comes from generations of careful design.
“This is beautiful,” I murmur, climbing out onto the brick pavers, the smell of pine and something clean and masculine in the air.
“Wait until you see it in daylight,” Vince says, unlocking the door. “The garden’s the real showstopper.”
The living room opens up, hardwood floors gleaming in the warm glow of the lamps Vince flips on. Carefully chosen furniture makes the space feel lived-in but curated. The windows frame the bay, lights sparkling on the water.
“Drink?” Vince asks. “Wine, beer, something stronger if you need it after the hours of travelling we’ve had.”
“Wine sounds perfect,” I reply, letting my gaze wander. This is where he lives, away from cameras and fans, a private world I’m only just entering. A leather jacket draped over a chair, framed photos of family and friends, small mementos of life beyond the field.
Then I see the trophies. They line a built-in shelf with a quiet confidence, MVP plaques, game balls, and championship rings tucked between novels. I can’t help the little laugh that escapes me.”
“You are quite a collector,” I tease softly.
Vince appears with two glasses of red wine, sliding one across to me, our fingers brushing. “I forget half the time that they are here,” he says.
“Right, just like you forget how amazing you are,” I counter, smiling.
He grins, that familiar curve of his lips sending warmth through me. Ten years of wondering what it would be like, seeing him like this, being with him without pretense, and it feels easier than I ever imagined.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing upstairs. “Let me show you the rest.”
The guest rooms are almost larger than my whole apartment, the home office a perfect blend of professional and personal. Then we reach the master bedroom. The restraint of downstairs gives way to a space that is unmistakably lived in. The bed is huge, made, the reading chair beside the window stacked with books he actually reads. Photos on the dresser of his teammates and candid moments fill the room with warmth and history.
Vince sets down his wine and steps close, the scent of him intoxicating. I can feel the electricity between us, a slow burn from the afternoon that now threatens to ignite completely. I lean into him, letting the day’s tension and anticipation fold into a kiss that leaves no room for hesitation. Hands trace familiar lines, lips follow, and the quiet house becomes our private universe.
The night stretches ahead with soft laughter and whispered confessions. Outside, the city hums softly while we build our own world in these rooms, one that has waited ten years to finally exist. Our hands wander and lips meet as tenderness gives way to fire. Clothes are discarded, and skin presses to skin. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered name pulls us deeper into a night that is ours alone. Moans and laughter mix as the quiet rooms echo with passion we’ve held back for too long. By the time we collapse together, spent and tangled, the city outside is still. All that remains is warmth, the lingering magic of connection, and the certainty that we’ve finally found our way home.
I wake up in Vince’s bed wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets that probably cost more than my monthly groceries, sunlight filtering through expensive blinds that somehow make even the morning look like it belongs in an architectural magazine.
The space beside me is empty but still warm, and I can hear the distant sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen. Coffee brewing. The sizzle of bacon in a pan. Domestic sounds that shouldn’t feel as intimate as they do, but here we are.
I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache of last night’s activities in muscles I’d forgotten I had, and that’s when I see it.
There, on the wall closest to where Vince sleeps, perfectly framed in simple black wood, hangs my old charcoal sketch from high school. It’s the same one I’d slipped across his desk that day in art class without thinking, just because I’d caught something in his posture that demanded to be captured on paper. The paper has yellowed slightly with age, and there are small creases near the corners where it might have been folded and unfolded before finding its way into the frame. But it’s perfectly preserved otherwise, like something precious that’s been carefully protected.
I sit up, suddenly fully awake. I push the sheet aside, stand, and walk naked toward it, bare feet silent on the carpeted floor. I reach up and trace the glass with my fingers, touching my teenage attempt to understand him, to capture the boy who had always been my muse, the quiet gravity that had shaped every sketchbook and canvas I’d ever filled.
The fact that he kept it all these years, that it’s here beside his bed where he sees it every morning, hits me with an emotion I don’t have words for.
“That is one beautiful ass.”
Vince’s voice comes from the doorway, warm with amusement and something deeper. I turn to find him leaning against the frame, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants and carrying a tray that smells like coffee and everything good about mornings. His hair is messed from sleep, and there’s asatisfied gleam in his eyes that makes desire stir low in my belly despite everything we did last night.
“Yeah, well,” I say, not bothering to cover myself. “I remember you appreciating it quite thoroughly last night. Multiple times, if I recall correctly.”
His grin widens, pure male satisfaction. “What can I say? Years of fantasizing about my high school crush don’t just disappear overnight.”
That makes my face burn.
He sets the tray on the dresser and moves to stand behind me, his presence warm and solid at my back. His hands settle on my shoulders, thumbs working gentle circles into the tension I didn’t realize I was carrying.
“You kept it,” I say quietly, nodding toward the sketch.
His hands still for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is softer than before. “I never forgot.”
I lean back against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my spine. “All these years?”
